


Out of the Ashes

by Charmtion



Series: We are Wolves [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Power Play, Sexual Content, Teasing, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: “I thought we were playing at wolves tonight.” Sharp white teeth nip at his lip as she leans low over him, her voice a thread of dark smoke that chokes out any half-lit protest sparking in his belly. “Who is this mouse that lies beneath me?”A game of cat and mouse and two wolves each intent at winning//Jon watches from the battlements; Sansa teases him at dinner.





	Out of the Ashes

She is something to see: this sister of his.

Half her life beneath the thumbprints of a handful of men — wolf, lion, mockingbird, red-flayed skeleton — all set to turn her this way and that, all plucking her about as if she were a bone-chip in a game of draughts. They tried to make her many things: red-and-gold queen, southern bride, bastard of the riverlands — bent, beaten, broken.

 _Tried_.

He watches her now as she moves about the courtyard: winter-bright cheeks, snow-dusted shoulders, blood-red hair lapping fire down her back, sapphire-blue eyes clear as ice in the weak sunlight.

Sometimes, she is her mother: cold, curve-lipped, cutting to the quick any half-plumed fool that seeks to feather her with rose-warm words and sweet-sung laughter.

Sometimes, she is their father: stern, solemn-eyed, sun-warm to those that find perch amongst the crooks of her ribs.

Sometimes, she is something other, something _wilder_ : lithe, dark, stealthy as a shadow moving through the trees.

Who is she today? It is hard to tell as he watches her. She looks like he used to look: a black brother — furs and gloves and boots and cloak. Ebony and charcoal, a raven cutting a night-dark shadow across snow-white sky. But she is _more_ than dragonglass — she is ruby, sapphire, opal, moonstone. A thousand jewels, a hundred gems, all the colour leached pale-stone shades by the winter sunlight.

Beneath his hands, she glows half a hundred _different_ shades: cherry, crimson, copper — vibrant as the hair streaming flames from her brow. His fingers flex on the ice-edged stone he grips; sharp and quick, desire bites at his belly.

Snow falls from a white-filled sky. He watches and — when she _thinks_ no-one is watching — she tips her face toward it: a pink tongue, cat-curled, catching at a snowflake. As it melts, her sapphire eyes blink open, fix on his, pull him in as she pulls in her tongue. Between her plush lips, it slides back; a pearl-cut smile as she flashes him her teeth.

So _that_ is who she is today: a _wolf_.

 

* * *

 

She plays at being a cat whilst soft-stepped men bring supper out. A cat — heavy-lidded, lick-lipped, light-fingered — lapping at her wine-cup, gnawing at a heel of bread, kneading at his arm with a sisterly touch.

A cat — of course he plays the mouse for her.

Caught between her paws, how could he not?

Later, it will be different: tooth, claw, buck, bite… but not yet.

So, for now — a mouse. _Anything_ , for her.

Her hand on his arm; the touch near burns him, fire-red as her hair tumbling dark as the blood they share. A flex of fingers — her claws are aching to come out, he can _feel_ it. Her foot on his beneath the ironwood table: bare, brazen, burning a trail from his ankle to his knee. He wants to catch it up and kiss it — circle the long lean line of her calf and yank her legs apart, trip kisses the swell of her thigh, hear that sweet little gasp she makes when his mouth closes red-warm between her —

“Pray excuse me.” Her voice is an echo across the hall: cold, curve-lipped, cutting to the quick the chatter and chuckle of her household. “I find I have small appetite tonight.”

She rises, and he _aches_ — she is her mother today, after all.

A swell of silence marks her wake: ebony and charcoal, a raven cutting a night-dark shadow across the fire-blush feast. Her fingers trail the brass-fitted door as she dips beneath the archway. She turns — just for a moment — her sapphire eyes fixing on his: wolf-wild as the cut of her teeth as she bites her lip.

He breathes again: a _wolf_ , that is what she is today.

And tonight?

So is he.

 

* * *

 

She is a jewel by candlelight: this sister of his.

The chamber is shuttered and cluttered: wine-dark and full of the trinkets of her youth — slips of silk, skeins of Myrish lace, shell-studded boxes of garish gemstones, stitched kerchiefs, sweetly-set dolls of cloth and paint, silver-gilt mirrors that used to sit in her mother’s rooms.

A trove, but no real treasure.

 _She_ is the treasure: every bit of her, each rib and rise, every dip and valley — her jewel-bright brilliance reflected in his eyes keen as the silver-gilt mirrors leant knock-kneed against trunks and walls.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.”

Her voice is as much a challenge as her eyes: sapphire-blue, cat-curled, wolf-wild. A bird-tilt of her head; blood-red, her hair spills across her shoulder, runs as a whisper that begs his fingers to run through it.

“How could I not?” Carefully, he sheds his tunic: a blot of ink that bleeds black across the flagstones where he drops it. “You left me wanting at dinner.”

“Did I?” Innocent as a maid, the way she flares her eyes at him; wicked as a siren, the way she nibbles at her lip. “What did I leave you wanting, Jon Snow?”

He steps toward her: lithe, dark, stealthy as a shadow moving through the trees. He hears the breath hitch in her throat; a smile — slow as a sun-warmed snake — lifts his lips. His fingers find her jaw: a thumbprint on her chin, he strokes at her plush little mouth till it opens for him.

“You,” he says nonchalantly. “ _You_ , Sansa Stark.”

No more mice, no more cats; wolves circle each other now.

She sucks on his thumb as he pushes her back onto the bed. Her body is bone-white against the crimson coverlets; her eyes are great blue pools, blown-wide, brimming, beckoning, _begging_. A wet pop: he pulls his thumb free, watches with a lazy smile as she sucks on her lip instead, eyelashes fluttering as he trails a wet track down her throat.

Round and round, her nipple turns to ice: hard and red-shone by the thumb she wetted. Her hair is lost against the blood-red bed as she tips back her head. He thinks of her in the great hall: cold, curve-lipped, cutting to the quick, _controlled_. She is not her mother anymore, not now, not _here_.

Here, beneath his hands, she glows half a hundred jewel-bright shades: cherry, crimson, copper — vibrant as the red-warm moan streaming between her teeth.

“Shh.” A flick of his tongue where his thumb has tread; she bucks beneath him. “They’ll hear you.”

Another moan, smoke-dark, _defiant_. “Let them hear me.”

Hard hands on her hips, he hefts her up against the pillows, wrenches at the silk-swell of her thighs. Hot kisses the valley between her hipbones; a salt-streak of tongue, he dips down, drinks deep the taste of her. Her hands fly to his head: a tangle-tease, knotting into his hair, winding obsidian strands round and round till they shine bright as rings on her fingers.

“Small appetite, you said.” He lands a bite on her hip: quick and sharp as the desire shredding at his belly. “Did you lie, sweet sister? You seem hungry as me.”

She rolls her hips in his hands; flint covered in velvet, he grips at the bones shifting beneath the skin. Holds her steady as he sinks his mouth on her again, feather-light, a silk-soft suck and _pull_ that leaves her thighs trembling against his cheeks, her eyes great blue pools threatening to drown him.

“Hungry,” she mewls, chasing his mouth with her hips. “For _you_.”

He should know better than to trust those eyes — blue-wide, lethal in their innocence — but he lets her chase him up from her thighs, thread salt-sweet kisses the taut plain of her belly, seashell-swirls the peaks of her breasts, an inferno the smooth white curve of her throat. Makes to take her mouth, kiss her soft and sweet as he slips between her legs — but _now_ the wolf returns: lithe, dark, stealthy as a shadow moving through the trees.

“Sansa — ”

But he is on his back sudden as a storm — and _there_ she is: rising out of the ashes of his hard-won control, a blood-haired goddess ready to devour his desire easy as she eats the air that fills her lungs, plumps her ribs, glitters her sapphire eyes.

“I thought we were playing at wolves tonight.” Sharp white teeth nip at his lip as she leans low over him, her voice a thread of dark smoke that chokes out any half-lit protest sparking in his belly. “Who is this mouse that lies beneath me?”

A crack of laughter — swift-swept to a low moan as she arches into the hand he fastens around her throat. Fingertips pressing the gentle threat she loves so much; her head rolls in his grip as her fingers trail down the hard-packed muscle of his belly. She leans back, lifted by his one-handed grip tight at her hipbone, and rolls down onto him: a silky red-warm clamp that sets him seeing star-speckled skies and tasting honey-streaks of fire.

He closes his eyes, thrusts up into her, a growl tumbling from his bitten lip.

“Shh.” Her voice: hot honey, crushed berries, spiced woodsmoke turning his tongue half a hundred jewel-bright shades. “They’ll hear you.”

His eyes flash open at that, his fingers tighten on her throat; smiling, they move together, wild as wolves. His voice, a mirror to her moan: smoke-dark, _defiant_ —

“Let them hear us.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **NB** : title and initial inkling of an idea inspired by a much-loved quote from Sylvia Plath's _Lady Lazarus_ :
> 
> _Out of the ash_  
>  _I rise with my red hair_  
>  _And I eat men like air_.  
>    
> I really **am** enjoying my extended foray into the #Jonsa hype; please feel free to leave feedback etc. 🐺❤️


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